


those are stars in our teeth

by allezgarcia (harrysmiles)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 12:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16095620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrysmiles/pseuds/allezgarcia
Summary: “what,” nico says, but his phone is silent. “you-- you can not be that desperate.”pierre snorts, “well, maybe i am. you saw me playing a week ago, didn't you?”(or,after nico retires in 2020, he starts coaching pierre.)





	those are stars in our teeth

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from 'three poems' by andrew michael roberts  
> (feel free to point out any mistakes)

the party was benoit's idea, and that's all nico remembers.

pierre sends him coordinates of a parisian restaurant nico's never heard of before and meets him in the hall, kisses nico's cheek and hisses that it's cold. it's early june, but evenings are still cool, and nico hasn't seen pierre for two months or so.

they meet with lucas, and richard, and jo, and benoit jumps on them and bear-hugs them both, and nico feels almost dizzy at how familiar it all is.

they talk, and laugh, and sing, and drink; pierre looks at nico across the table, salutes him with a bottle of beer, which nico hates, and he smiles at him. pierre doesn't look away and mouths something like “wanna leave?”, nico follows him to the front door, someone (he knows it's benoit) whistles; it only becomes louder when pierre looks back and grimaces.

“jesus, i'm already tired of them,” pierre tells nico when they're outside. it's cold, and he blows at his hands, puts them in his hoodie pockets. nico missed little familiar gestures like this. “maybe we're too much once we get together like this,” pierre laughs, and his eyes are smiling as always, little wrinkles in the corners of them, and nico forgets to laugh back.

“how are you?”, pierre asks him. nico wants to say, “i'm really great, thanks,” but it's not like he's talking to press, so fuck it. he says, “i missed you.”

pierre looks at him for several seconds, as if he's considering something; “you know we can leave, right?”, he asks. “they won't notice.”

he takes his right hand of his pocket and takes nico's palm in his. his fingers are warm. “you'd like that?” nico asks, already knowing the answer.

 

***

 

pierre's hotel is not far, and nico knows pierre has thought about that, maybe even earlier than he texted nico about the party. he tangles his fingers with pierre's while they are in the taxi, strokes his wrist with his thumb and hears pierre breathing hard. they arrive at the hotel and pierre doesn't look at him, his fingers still in nico's. when they're in the elevator, he steps closer, lowers his head, and nico gasps because pierre moves his scarf and kisses his neck, kisses his jaw, doesn't let go when the elevator stops.

“missed you too,” pierre says, once he locks the door of his suite behind them. nico doesn't see his face, feels only how pierre's hands pull on his jacket and he shrugs it off, finds pierre's mouth and kisses it, finally. pierre makes a little noise, his fingers tug at nico's hair, then clench at his shoulders, trace to his stomach. nico can tell he's shivering, and pierre must be feeling it; he pulls away for a second, whispers “okay?”, his voice raspy already. nico nods, and pierre makes a move, pushes nico to the wall, drops to his knees.

 

***

 

“i split with fabrice,” pierre tells him when they are laying on the bed later, nico's fingers writing lazy figures on pierre's chest. “right after we decided to skip roland garros to let ugo treat his shoulder, fabrice told me he wants to take a break from tennis. so i'm a free man now,” pierre sighs and laughs shortly, but nico knows he's nervous about it. fabrice coached him for five or six years, always by pierre's side wherever he was, winning or struggling on court. “are you looking for someone?”, nico asks. 

“i need someone who knows me really well,” pierre says quietly, biting his nails like he always does when he's overthinking something. nico feels an urge to calm him down like he always did when they played together; one of many reflexes tennis gave him, and he can't fight it. “someone who understands both singles and doubles game would be nice,” pierre says. he's not looking at nico. “well, and also someone who manages to deal with your endless charm and beauty,” nico adds, and pierre grins; his cheeks flush.

“how is ugo?” nico asks. “his shoulder is better,” pierre says; nico watches his face. “come watch us in london.”

“i will,” nico tells him. pierre smiles.

“i missed you,” he repeats.

 

***

 

nico comes to queens to watch them. virginie calls him to say he's stupid for not telling them he's going there and that natanel wanted to go with him. (virginie and nico are divorced for almost a year now. nico misses them badly.)

“say hello to pierre,” virginie says, after natanel finishes telling him about how he's tired of school and just wants to watch tennis.

“why would you think i'm meeting with him?” he asks, trying not to sound pathetic.

“nico,” she sighs.

 

***

 

pierre and ugo lose in the second round, and nico feels how gutted pierre is, when he sees him and ugo after the match. “i'm happy you came,” pierre tells him and winces, “not the result we wanted, though.”

“i like your team,” nico tells him, and it's true. he likes the way they communicate, how ugo has grown to know pierre's every move and sign, and his game is quick and smart. nico notices how ugo is reaching for pierre, how he catches every encouraging word he says. seeing pierre being the older one in the team feels new. he's not the same he was two or three years ago. he's talking about their defeat quietly, but in a firm voice.

nico feels so proud it almost hurts.

 

***

 

they spend a night together, and somehow it's different from the ones they've had before. pierre is squeezing nico's wrists, muttering something like he can't stop, his head between nico's thighs, nico's eyes are closed, “look at me,” pierre pleads, “you're so beautiful, look at me”; when nico comes, he cries pierre's name out loud.

they fall asleep tangled together. pierre brings nico a cup of tea in the morning, ties nico's scarf in front of the mirror. “there's one thing i'd like to discuss,” he says. “i'll call you later.”

“what is it?” nico asks and pierre winks at him over his own cup of decaf.

“i'll call you,” he repeats and kisses him.

 

***

 

the call comes a week later.

"couch me,” pierre says; he's in london, and nico is-- at home. he's at home, in boulogne-billancourt, and he certainly doesn't have to remind himself that his life doesn't revolve around tennis calendar anymore.

and right now he's not sure what he just heard.

“what,” he says, but his phone is silent. “you-- is this that thing you wanted to discuss? you can not be that desperate.”

pierre snorts, “well, maybe i am. you saw me playing a week ago, didn't you?”

“yeah, and you couldn't even tell it while I was with you?”

“just say yes,” pierre says; he sounds like it's nothing serious and he's offering nico a date or something. nico chuckles.

“i need to think. do you realize what you're asking for? wimbledon is in two weeks. and i've never coached anyone.”

“i thought about it, and i know how it may sound, but i don't have anyone right now, and i need someone-- you've seen me. i need directions.” pierre's voice is pleading now. he sighs. “i trust you.”

“i need to think,” nico tells him. “give me two days, okay?”

 

***

 

pierre calls him the next day.

“so?”

“you are desperate,” nico tells him.

“what did you decide?” pierre asks. “look, i know that's not how i should have asked you, but--”

“i think we could try,” nico says before he can stop himself. “okay. i'll coach you.”

“are you serious? oh. shall we meet in london then? oh my god. you are going to be my coach.”

and there's no way back.

 

***

 

nico arrives at wimbledon, and it's as stunning as it is every year, all green and sparkling and noisy. pierre texts him, “where are u??”, “are u on court 18???”, and nico wants to turn his phone off and catch a plane back to france, but, of course, he doesn't do it.

they meet ten minutes before pierre's practice session on court 5 starts; nico hears someone shouting his name, and three seconds later pierre is all over him. he smells of sunscreen and looks happy. he kisses nico's cheeks and gives him one of his gear bags. 

“so,” nico says, looking at pierre checking his wristbands, a racket already in his hand, “what plans do we have?” it sounds like they're planning their holidays together. or it's just nico's nerves. pierre smirks.

“well, i didn't make it out of qualies, so we could try to go into the second week, at least. there's still a bit of disappointment after we lost in queens, but at least we got a bit of practice on grass, and ugo is pretty confident,” he lets go of his wristbands and begins stretching his arms, “but you saw that, didn't you?”

“yeah. he's definitely progressing. why don't you practice with him?”

“hey, we do practice together, just not every day. the kid needs his own space,” hearing pierre calling someone a kid is somehow amusing. nico has to remind himself they're not in 2015 or even 2017 anymore. the man in front of him has turned 30 almost three months ago. and he surely wasn't a kid back when they played together, though the whole davis cup team used to call him that. that's probably because they all were just a bunch of patriots having an early midlife crisis, nico thinks almost fondly.

the practice starts, nico supplies balls for pierre and watches how he practices his serve, varies it: slice, spin, kick, flat. pierre looks at him, then squints at the sun. his serve is still a weapon, much needed for a doubles player, especially on grass.

when twenty minutes pass, nico asks pierre to have a break.

“grass seems nice this year,” pierre says, lacing up a new pair of shoes. “don't you think?”

“for me, it's always nice,” nico says. he watches pierre making sure the laces are done perfectly and drinking his vitamin cocktail in small sips.

“yeah, i know. maybe i should play in newport after wimbledon, what do you think?”

“newport grass isn't wimbledon grass,” nico states, and pierre shrugs. “okay, now let's go. get up.”

 

***

 

in the evening they meet with ugo, and the boy is so amazed he can't talk for at least twenty seconds. “sorry!” he tells nico, hugging him and kissing his cheeks. he is all wide eyes and nervous gesturing. “didn't expect you to say yes to him,” pierre chokes on his water. nico tries to look like the phrasing didn't seem ambiguous to him at all.

“did he plead?” ugo asks as they're waiting for their food to come. he's looking at nico. “or did he--”

“hey,” pierre says. his cheeks are adorably red. “i didn't plead. well, a little, maybe.”

“the truth is, he didn't leave me any choice,” nico says and watches pierre's cheeks flush even more. ugo is looking at nico almost shyly now.

“i've watched your matches a lot, you know,” he says. “when you've played together. you were a dream team, really.”

nico is too stunned to find an answer, but pierre inserts, “we were. and we can be now, again. the three of us.” he looks at nico. “can we?”

“well, that depends on several factors,” nico observes. “if you listen to what your coach says, then we sure can be.” ugo is watching them both, delighted.

 

***

 

the next day ugo practices with them, and it's still unusual for nico to see pierre and him like this: how pierre checks ugo's rackets before the practice, how he comes to ugo almost every time he double faults during matches, rubs his back and returns to the net. how he whispers ugo something at the changeovers, and they both laugh.

this time two or three journalists wait for nico near the court. once they finish the practice, ico approaches them; pierre and ugo are chatting on the bench, gathering their things.

“we're happy to see you here, mr. mahut,” one of the journalists tells him. “is it true that you're now coaching your former doubles partner?”

“well, i'm certainly not here just to watch him practicing,” nico jokes. suddenly, he notices that he's still holding two pierre's rackets. “sorry. he asked me about it and i said yes.”

“what are you expecting from pierre at this wimbledon?”

“i hope to see him progressing. he likes grass and he has game for it, always had. he-”

“are you gonna make him a grass specialist like yourself?” the same journo asks, and nico can swear he hears pierre chuckling. asshole.

“it's too early to make any predictions,” he says and the little interview is over.

 

***

 

pierre and ugo's first match is scheduled on court 11, and it looks like nico is a lot more nervous then these two. they're facing a young italian team, they've played them once already and won on a tiebreak, but pierre tells nico not to worry like it's some french challenger. ugo seems to be so excited he's actually forgotten what a pre-match anxiety is.

the court is tiny, but nico likes it; they've won matches here, pierre and him. he's expected that to feel weird, watching pierre playing doubles as a coach. “we're just getting started,” pierre told ugo and him in the locker room, his eyes dark and his whole body buzzing with excitement.

they win in straight sets, and nico forgets he was even feeling nervous. pierre turns to look at him two seconds after the matchpoint, watching nico for a few long moments before he approaches the net to shake their opponents' hands.

 

***

 

pierre comes to nico's place that night, tells him he can't sleep, his eyes black and his wrists cold. “what are we?” he mumbles into nico's shoulder, “what are we going to do with it?”

“we don't have to do anything,” nico tells him and kisses him, closes his eyes so he doesn't see the blackness of pierre's. “you're gonna play matches, and i'm gonna help you, no matter what.”

pierre looks at him, his breathing at nico's lips, their foreheads touching.

“you know i loved you since i was twenty four and you were watching me playing those shitty challengers, telling me i'm gonna become a great player someday?”, he asks almost casually, and nico knows he's serious, knows that he doesn't have to reply.

pierre stays.

 

***

 

“what do you like the most about ugo?” nico asks.

“he doesn't cry on court as much as you did,” pierre says, laughs when nico throws a pillow at him.

 

***

 

their second match goes as easy as the first; they win the third on two tiebreaks and reach to the quarterfinals; nico comes to the locker room once the match is finished. pierre is sitting on the bench near his locker, ugo's on the floor, leaning against pierre's legs. both look tired, but utterly proud of themselves.

pierre reaches out for nico and he takes the wristband off his right hand: a ritual from their past. “quarters, baby,” ugo sings, then gets on his feet and leaves for the shower, still singing. pierre's smiling when nico approaches the bench he's sitting on, sits beside him. pierre's hair is matted and sweaty.

 

***

 

the next day they are in the locker room alone, preparing for practice with ugo, and nico doesn't remember who kissed who first, but ugo comes in just in time to see his partner and his coach kissing, and his face doesn't even change.

“see you on court in two minutes,” he says, and leaves. pierre buries his face against nico's shoulder.

“that was going to happen, anyway,” he mumbles. “he's not gonna leave me, is he?”

ugo doesn't say a word when they appear on the court, just watches them more closely while the practice goes on.

 

***

 

their next match is tough, they win the first set and lose the second, get the third on a tiebreak and miss the fourth, and in the fifth ugo's struggling with his serve, his shoulder giving him trouble again. pierre raises his hands in a despairing gesture towards nico.

nico knows pierre so well; he's seen him losing, winning, crying, laughing till he's coughing, sleeping on a bus they'd taken to lille, napping right on free court benches, hugging nico as tight as if he wanted to hold him for years. he knows the expression pierre has now, throwing looks at his partner, and then at nico: “i have no idea how, but we'll do this”, like he is 25 again, and it's his first grand slam final.

eventually, they lose, and it's tough, but ugo's serving is better at the end of the match, and he tells pierre and nico his shoulder is okay; maybe his voice cracks up, and he puts his head on pierre's shoulder right in front of the press, and pierre's arm is around ugo's shoulders, because they both become touchy when they're tired. they look a lot better when nico tells them they can be proud of themselves.

 

***

 

“so, i have to see what the doctor says and then have some rest, again,” ugo groans the next morning when they meet for breakfast. “and you two, are you going to have a vacation together now or what,” he asks in an almost bored voice and it's just a happy coincidence that nico doesn't spill his tea. pierre, however, is drinking his decaf very peacefully.

“i have an idea,” he says. “nico, you''ll like it.”

“will i,” nico says; ugo is hiding his face behind his phone, and there is quite a possibility he is filming them, but pierre doesn't care and neither does nico. “what is it?”

“i got a wildcard to newport,” pierre says, watching nico's face. “thought they'd be happy to see my new coach. are you in?” pierre looks absolutely happy with himself as he says it, and nico doesn't have any choice as he answers, “of course, i'm in.”

ugo whistles, and it's clear he's filming; half of the restaurant is watching them now; nico asks himself, what did he get himself into, but pierre tangles their hands under the table, and it all seems okay. they will be okay.


End file.
